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The Writer’s Curse

It’s our boon. It’s our curse. The pages will turn. The words will flow. The smiles will be plastered. It’s something all great people do. Even in a cinematic representation, you would find yourself spellbound. Take Richard Linklater, Wong Kar Wai, Sofia Coppola, and Gaspar Noe amongst others.

What am I talking about?

IRONIES AND THEIR CHARMS

I often indulge in the same, and for me too, like others the romance overhauls. The writer weaves magic, often leaving the reader, stunned. The reader meets the same ideology from different eyes, and more often than not negates his reservations with an affirming smile. A fellow writer quoted Haruki Murakami and the love for irony was evident. I guess that’s what we do. Indulge into a world that is created by self or someone who just switched a few words/roles and found a new meaning. And believe it or not, it is profound. Let me quote Murakami and you’d get an idea: “I dream. Sometimes I think that’s the only right thing to do.”

That spurred me to write this:

Being Human

In a world of billion, he was walking alone. As the dusk was trying his best to stop the night to enter, his mind was playing catalyst to what was happening. Tonight his life would change. These few hours were all he had.

He thought about people who came along, would now have to be left behind. Of all, he would most miss his dog. But this was inevitable.

The forest was approaching. He took a deep breath and continued walking. He could feel the ghosts of the past running alongside. They were calling him back. “We forgave you. Don’t leave us”, they echoed. He could sense horned angels flying towards him, just to close his ears.

He stopped near the river for some water. He looked at his self. The animal they called him. Maybe it was a curse. He never thought so. He was the master of nights. Many nights. A savior. A so-called lover. A fighter. THE MAN.

He wished he had loved someone. Maybe he still can. But never in a way had he wanted. He had missed his chance.

He had begun his climb over the mountain. In reality, it was walking down on a glorious past. With every step forward, a part of him was leaving, breath after breath. He wished he could control this. He was fuming by now. All hope was lost when he reached the top. He held his head high. The night arose.

good one. Werewolf was a surprise.
Suggestion: maybe a hint earlier about a rising moon or the “halo of the cloud-eaten moon”. Put the moon in the picture sooner. And at the end, unveil it from the clouds- “His first full moon night”.